


The Dating Game

by inkandchocolate



Series: The Dating Game [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandchocolate/pseuds/inkandchocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they rescued the children in "Blind Date," don't you wonder what happened between Angel and Lindsey to drive him back to W&H?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kissing on the First Date

Angel locks the door behind Wesley, turns off the lights as he walks through the outer office, his own inner office, and steps into the elevator. Thinks about Wesley's words.

//There is a design, Angel. Hidden in the chaos as it may be, but - it's there - and you have your place in it.//

Feels himself wanting to laugh at the idea of having his place in anything, anywhere. Everything he does now feels like it's a waste of effort, waste of time. They saved the children tonight, three innocents to mark in his column of good deeds. Thinks there might be the possibility of a fourth that's on the way to salvation, not an innocent by a long shot, but still and all. A soul is a soul, and Lindsey seems to want redemption this time.

Elevator doors rumble open and Angel hears the shower running. There's a pile of clothes sitting on the floor, and they reek of old blood and some that's fresher. Some that's Lindsey's own. He toes the pile with his foot, sweeps them under a chair. Ambles into the bedroom, closer to the shower the scent of the steam's rich with layered odors. Sits on the bed, pulls off his boots and the black socks, rubs his bare feet on the carpet and enjoys the prickly sensation of the rough wool on the tired soles. Wonders how long Lindsey's going to be in the bathroom, and if he's familiar with the whole concept of showering to remove dirt and not skin.

Not that Angel would know anything about that himself. //You might want to let up. They say when you've drawn blood, you've exfoliated.//

He stands finally, walks to the bathroom door, opens it a crack. Waits a beat, opens it further, then further still. Blinks at the sight that greets him.

Lindsey stands naked at the sink staring into the mirror. He's still wet, water puddling under his feet on the tiles, ends of his hair releasing droplets onto his shoulders and down his back. His hands are braced on the damp white marble, and he's leaning forward nose almost against the steamed up surface. He doesn't turn around when Angel steps into the room or reaches into the shower and cuts off the water. He just keeps staring at the blurry, dark smear that's all his reflection appears to be.

"Lindsey." Angel's voice is quiet in the small room. There's no reply. Tries again. "I can give you some clothes to wear home, call you a cab. You need to get some sleep."

Lindsey turns at that, faces him full on, and Angel notes the still weeping cut on his face, high up by his hairline. "Call me a cab? Go back home where they know where to find me? Damn, Angel." Small snort of laughter and he runs a hand through wet hair, slicks it back from his face again. "You want me dead that bad, why don't you just slit my throat right now?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you think I can just walk out of here, go back to the apartment that Wolfram and Hart rented for me, go lay down in the bed they paid for and wait for the axe to fall? Do you really believe I'll make it past the end of the block?"

Angel blinks for a minute, honestly never considering this eventuality. He's tired, it's getting later than he cares to think about, and he wants Lindsey out of his apartment, out of his life. Doesn't feel like he owes the man anything more than he's already given him - aid in the rescue, the shower and some clothes. The lawyer's made his choices, and he can learn to live with the consequences. And if he didn't know better, if he couldn't smell the anger and panic coming off Lindsey in vague and shimmery waves, he'd swear there was some kind of ulterior motive for him standing there wet, naked and completely unselfconscious.

"OK, fine, I wasn't thinking about that. You can spend the night on the couch here, I'll be up for the rest of the night. You'll be safe."

"They know where you live, too." Deep sigh and he raises his arms, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. There's exhaustion in that gesture, Angel recognizes it.

"Yeah, well I'm thinking I might not be their top priority tonight, what with their whole assassination attempt being a failure and all. Clients to pacify, sacrifices to be made. Long enough for you to take a nap."

"You know, for once you're right, you're not their main concern. I'm pretty sure that I'm head of the hit list about now."

Angel leans in the doorway, arms crossed. "Are you afraid of dying, Lindsey?"

"What kind of stupid question is that? Everybody's afraid."

Angel shrugs. "Could be. At least you're not lying to me. For now."

Lindsey steps up closer, licks dry lips and says, "I didn't come to you to die, I came to you for help in getting out. If all you can offer me is Psych 101 and your couch for a few hours, then I might as well head over to the office and offer my head on a platter."

"What do you want me to do here?" Angel is uncomfortably aware of the proximity of Lindsey's body, the way the harsh light of the bathroom paints him in angles and shadows, the heat he radiates despite the wet body and the cool tiles. The smell of blood from the cut on his forehead. He's growing more interested in the conversation than he likes to admit and decides there's no harm in dishing out a little more aggravation while he's got the opportunity. No reason to make things easy for the man who's spent the better part of the last few months trying to see him kissing daylight, sudden attack of morality or not.

"I don't know." Lindsey gestures absently. "You're the soul saver here, you don't have a protocol for this kind of thing?"

"A protocol for evil lawyers who've been trying to have me staked? Sure I do. I pretty much make not giving a damn for their bad luck the top of my agenda." Another careless shrug, half smile twisting his lips.

Bark of laughter, bitter and harsh. "Yeah, and that's all you see, right? Evil lawyer guy, and you don't give a shit that I could have died in there. It'd just be one more acceptable risk, isn't that what you called it?" Hands on his hips now, and he says, "I'd think you'd be more likely to see the chance for people to change than your average, every day former-Scourge. You know, common bonds and all."

Angel says nothing, it's not even worth explaining the million ways that there's so much difference between the two of them. Except that there's not so much right now in the situation they find themselves in, and he wonders what he would have done if he'd had someone to show him the way all those decades ago.

Lindsey steps closer now, not enough space between them to fit a sliver of light, his skin brushing the fabric of Angel's clothing. He tilts his head, offers his neck. "You wanna see me dead? Another bad guy in your column of justice? Go ahead, feed, get it over with."

His eyes are blazingly bright, blue sapphires in his pale face, and when Angel's fingers skirt up the slope of his neck Lindsey flushes but doesn't pull away. Angel rubs his thumb over the pulsing blue jugular, says "You don't know what you're playing with here, Lindsey."

"I'm. Not. Playing." Each word clearly spoken. Angel feels the tremors under his hand, wonders whether it's from the cold bathroom or the chilly fingers on Lindsey's flesh, inhales slightly and finds there's a new tang in the aroma. And this is such a bad idea. So wrong, but he can't seem to put an end to the game yet.

"You feel like you owe me something? You want to pay me back for helping you out tonight, Lindsey?" No answer except the motion of his throat as Lindsey swallows. "I know you've done your research, you've read up on me, on vampires in general. I bet your files are pretty impressive." Lets his fingers walk up and down the expanse of throat, feels the pulse stuttering faster as he does it. "I told you before I could smell terror on you, it's all in the pheromones. What do you think I'm smelling on you now?"

"Yeah, well, I'm past the point of having any secrets here, don't you think? Are we gonna talk some more, make this the lamest guessing game ever?"

Fingers moving around to cup the back of his head now, and Angel tells him, "Last chance to pick the couch."

Angel tightens his fingers in the wet hair, feels the shudder that goes through his body as those blue eyes close, and that is his undoing. Submission inherent in the downcast gaze, odor of lust heady and mixing with the rush of power given over by free will. Knows as he leans into Lindsey that the man is expecting the sharp pain of fangs in his neck, and that still might well happen before the night is over.

Tug on the hair brings his face up, mouth already parted in a half gasp that's cut off with Angel's lips on Lindsey's. Other hand reaching out to grasp his hip, pull him in tight, let Lindsey feel the evidence of arousal he is unable to smell. Brush of lips only at first, Lindsey's mouth pliant but not quite responsive until Angel's tongue flicks out, catches the underside of that full bottom lip, draws it into his mouth and sucks on the warm flesh. Hears Lindsey groan in response, hands coming up to grab at his shirt, hips pressing in tight and hard as Angel's fingers dig into his scalp and the muscles of his hip.

Kiss deepening into something hungry now, mouths open wide, tongues slick and invading. Angel's gone so long without the heat of a body next to his own, and the ferocity of the other man speaks volumes about his solitary life as well. There's a spark of concern, the danger of the curse hanging forever over his head, and he tenses, pulls away. Lindsey's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded when he looks up again.

"What?" Breathless question, and Angel considers how to phrase it.

"I'm not sure this is what either one of us should be doing," he begins, but Lindsey cuts him off with a shove, hands still fisted in the wrinkled material of Angel's shirt.

"Second thoughts? Let me guess, you don't sleep with the enemy. Still got me painted into that same old corner?" Another little shove, press of his hips to accentuate it, and Angel smirks.

"No, actually I was going to mention the curse. Come on Lindsey, you know all about the curse, and the convenient trigger that's built into it." Wraps his hands around Lindsey's shoulders, lets his own hips do a thrust out of their own, rough material of his pants rubbing the hard length that's pressed into him.

"Yeah well, I'm not too concerned about either one of us finding perfect happiness here tonight."

Whatever comment Angel may have planned as a retort - and there was one, Lindsey brings out the insane desire to argue in him like no one else ever has, not even Will - was lost as Lindsey's mouth covers his own, tongue slipping in and licking across teeth, palette, back out to slide over his lips.

Any chance of calling this off long gone now as Angel drags them both towards the bed, turns and pushes Lindsey down onto it so he can lose his own clothes, shirt torn off over his head, pants unzipped and shoved down over his hips, kicked to the corner when they hit the floor. Lindsey lays on his back, propped up on his elbows, watching.

Angel's gaze trips over the lines of the lithe torso spread out before him, smooth chest giving way to the thin line of brown hair below the navel, tangle of wiry curls at the base of the hard cock. Completely at ease with his nudity in a way that Angel finds almost disconcerting. Reminds him of himself if he lets it, his comfort in a skin he's worn unchanging for over two hundred years.

Drops to the bed, Lindsey's legs between his spread knees as he lowers himself over the length of him, thigh meeting thigh, hip bone nestling into the hollow beside Lindsey's, cocks brushing and then pressed between them. Lindsey remains on his elbows as Angel lets himself down further, stomachs, ribcages meeting and they're face to face. Lindsey's eyes focus on Angel's mouth, parting in anticipation. Angel can see the tip of his tongue hovering right against his top teeth as he waits, warm puffs of air hitting his face with every exhalation.

"You plan on relaxing at any point?" Words spoken into Lindsey's mouth as it opens below his, and Angel lets his weight press down, forces Lindsey to lay back flat on the bed. Shifts to one side just the slightest bit, rolls his hips as he moves. Slow brush of skin on skin, arched back and low moan beneath him, all full of need and want. Slick clean skin, and Angel licks his way from earlobe to jaw line as his hand skims along Lindsey's ribs, into the dip of his waist, rests there. Mouth moving over his collarbone, open lips and slick tongue, nipping bites that make Lindsey shudder and clutch at Angel's hair, neck, the small of his back.

= = = = =

Flood of wetness between them and Lindsey writhes, slick fluid making friction a thing of the past no matter how hard he pumps his hips. Spread his legs as much as he can with Angel's on either side, sighs when Angel moves to accommodate him and presses his knee up higher. Lindsey lets eager fingers wriggle into the space between them as Angel lifts his hips, seeming to anticipate the hot hand Lindsey wraps around him. Shivers as Angel's low groan is added to his own panting in the quiet of the room.

Catches his breath, voice heavy and accent thick in the shell of Angel's ear when he whispers, "Yeah, right there." Gives another tight stroke that causes Angel to echo his first sound of pleasure. Angel's head dips down and captures Lindsey's mouth again, blunt teeth worrying his bottom lip, sucking it until he can feel it swelling and full of blood.

Hand pushing on Angel's shoulder until he reluctantly breaks away, lets Lindsey roll him away onto his back. Lindsey sees the other man's eyes falling closed as he begins to leave wet, open-mouthed kisses from his neck to his chest, stops to flick over his nipple and catch it with his sharp human-teeth. Angel's cock jerks at the sensation, Lindsey smiles against his skin as he moves his mouth over to the other hard bud to lick and nibble there too. Feels Angel's long fingers threading into his hair, soft noise of protest falling away as Lindsey's mouth moves lower, heat and wetness trailing down, tongue dipping in his navel, lips pressed against his abdomen, the soft rounded hipbone, fingers between his thighs. Two hands now, and they press outward, spread Angel's legs apart wider and Lindsey settles in.

Hasn't done this of his own free will in so long that he can barely remember what it's like. Watches Angel tense in anticipation and gets a tingling thrill that starts in his belly and washes out to every limb. Position of power here, ability to give pleasure of his own choice not at the demand of the partner, spoken or not. It says something to him that Angel didn't ask for this, and he's not sure that he's entirely aware of what the message is. For now it's enough to lower his mouth and enjoy having control.

======

Angel raises his head, looks down in time to see Lindsey's bright gaze on his as he opens his mouth and lowers it over the head of Angel's cock. Tongue flutters over the foreskin, tip pointed and soft, and suddenly fingers are there to slip the skin down before there the heat is back. He can't stop watching the sight of that mouth wrapped around him, intensity of the gaze making sure he's aware of where he is, who he's with. No chance for a random fantasy when he's locked into the cobalt stare that belongs to the one who's currently driving him insane with lips and tongue, opening his jaw to take Angel into his throat.

Low humming sound and Angel's hand tightens in the sandy-blond hair, tugs him up and away before he comes down that hot throat. Drags him up the length of his body, rolls and fists both their cocks together, palm rolling over the head to gather the pre-come strands that drip from Lindsey's cock, the saliva that's still on Angel's. Three hard strokes and Lindsey is coming, hips high up off the bed, ropey white strands hitting Angel's chest, his own belly and thighs. Two more and Angel joins him, strangled moan and more wet stickiness covering them both. Angel collapses to the bed rolling as he does so that he lands beside Lindsey. They both lie still, Lindsey panting for breath, Angel's chest heaving in unnecessary syncopation.

=====

Lindsey's brain attempts to catch up to his body, complete physical bliss-out countered by the angry thoughts he harbors. Tells himself he is not gonna go down this path again, sympathy fuck from someone he hates because he seems broken and needy, or worse, fucking his way into his savior's good graces so he'll just tell him worth saving. //What the hell was I thinking tonight?// Panic and need never a good combination for him at anytime, fear for his life making coherent thought an impossibility, more so in Angel's presence for some unknown reason.

Tells himself how this was such a bad idea. Doesn't want Angel to give him that pathetic 'I'm here for you', placid face he must school on his features every time he sends a hand down to help some dumb lowlife in gutter. //Not gonna exchange one master for another, him always watching my back and expecting me to turn feral at any given second. Expecting me to drop to my knees to repay him. Had enough of that with the firm. Past my cock sucking days.//

Lindsey stirs, heavy eyes closing despite the frantic thoughts that bounce around his head, wicked speed as they ricochet and whine. One shitty alternative stacked against another, and what else is there? Go back and let them eat him for lunch, or be Angel's new crusade and deal with the constant put-downs and sideways glances from his staff? //Not to mention the downgrade in living accommodations and having to live off my savings until it gives out and I have to ask Angel to float me a little cash here and there.//

Tries to imagine actually forming the words to ask for a hand-out from Angel, fails utterly, still raw from the reaction his last plea for help had gotten him. Wonders with no illusions if Angel could *really* save him when the chips were down? //If the boys at the office picked up the Chase girl and told him it's her or me? I'd be bound and gagged before the phone hit the cradle.//

So it comes down to choose for himself, or letting chance choose for him. He thinks he'll make his own decision, continue to rely on the one person he's ever been able to trust, himself. Soon enough, Lindsey's breathing evens out, and in another moment he's drifting into a light sleep, just a few minutes to rest before it's time to get on with gettin' on.

=====

Angel lets his mind wander to all the reasons he knows this was the worst possible thing for him to have done, temptation so long avoided and all too irresistible when it's right there in his face. No threat of the curse kicking in, he knows that, there's no love between the two of them. Doesn't know what it is about Lindsey that sets him off, wires him like a caffeine high, jangles his nerves and makes him feel defensive whenever he's around. Piping voice in the back of his mind whispers that it's been so long since he saw his own reflection, having it walking around in the form of this man is what sends him off the rational path. Too much similarity there for comfort, and he denies it most of the time, but he's not slow, he knows. Thinks it might even be a test from the Powers.

Sleep beckons Angel, long night and a lot stress on this case, physical and mental, and it's so easy to roll over, steal a modicum body heat from the sleeping man beside him. Knows he'll be gone when daylight comes, probably sooner than that, and takes a large burden of esponsibility for that. Should have put him on the couch, not the first willing victim or pretty mouth and bared neck that's been offered him in all these years, but sometimes his resistance is thinner than others. Can't even use the old chestnut to fall back on, because he's not 'only human' despite his tendency to pick up some of their worst habits as his own.

Drifts off with the scent of Lindsey in his nose, wakes not too much later and isn't surprised to see that he's left, wearing the old bloody clothes and leaving no note. Angel rises, dresses and goes up through the office, locks the front door again. Shrugs on his coat and goes up to the roof of the building, sits on the rough stone edge and wonders what the hell is going to happen now.

-end-


	2. You Always Hurt the One You Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsey has non-random thought patterns. Set post-"Shanshu"

The visiting-nurse left hours ago, and despite the pain killers and the single malt his arm still throbs. It's a vague and incessant thing, not even the phantom pain they warned him about in the hospital or the itch of healing. It's the loss, he thinks. The loss of his hand is a pain beyond the ones the doctors and nurses think they understand.

His thoughts travel in neat paths, round and round. The combination of barbiturates and alcohol makes them slow and steady. None of the frantic pace of his past life when everything was double-time, worrying and planning layered over paranoia to get to the top and stay there. Now there's just a few familiar ideas that're marking circles in his head. There's the one about how he's a cripple now, less than a man, not whole. That one stays for a good bit of time, lounges in his head and reminds him of everything he can no longer do - tie his shoes, button his shirt, knot his own ties. Pretty soon the companion thought will come on over and hustle its way into the spotlight. Whisper pretty notions about ending it all, killing himself, suicide, so simple and right there in front of him, and wouldn't it be oh-so-easy to take all of the pills, wash them down with the rest of the fifth and. just. sleep. That one stays the longest, the beauty of the solution beguiling in the haze of scotch and downers. Eventually though, the final admonition will round the bend and shove its way into prominence. This one sounds a lot like his mama, reciting the old saw about not raisin' no fools, nor no cowards neither. Some vague mutterings about working too hard to get away, no sense in being a quitter, and before too very long he is hoping the crippled loser thoughts will come spinning by. They always oblige.

Circular logic; it's a beautiful thing.

The knock on the door breaks the pattern, and he stares at his bare feet on the glass-topped coffee table for a few moments, wondering if it's worth the effort to get up and gather what is most likely another fruit basket or bouquet of flowers. Another card to add to his growing collection, swirls of elegant printing wishing him a speedy recovery and adding their names to the list of people who are keeping him in their thoughts. All paid for on company expense accounts, every minute spent ordering the damn things written off as a billable hour.

He plans a rather large bonfire of dead flowers and useless cards in the not too distant future. Wonders if rotten fruit will burn and decides to get the door after all. The basket will be wicker, and that should go up like a bitch.

Shuffles over, carpet smooth under his feet, wounded arm held to his chest in a habitual stance they tell him to try to break. Opens the door and is just stoned enough to not show surprise when he sees Angel and not the harried delivery person he was expecting.

"What the hell do you want?" Lindsey's angry, but he's not expending the energy to yell, to break through the fuzz and have anything clear and sharp.

"I wanted to talk to you." Angel's expression never changes. Lindsey wonders how hard it is to keep that same, bland look plastered on all the time, stubbornly refuses to remember that he's seen that face wholly unguarded and open not long ago.

"Would this talking include hacking off any more extremities or ex-sanguinating me?" Cocked head, and he really wants an answer to the question, waits for it.

"It wasn't in the plan, no."

"Then fuck off." Starts to shut the door, slowly though.

"Wait."

Sees Angel's hand come up in a gesture to stop it even though he knows he can't. That's kind of...interesting. Lindsey pauses. "What?"

"You *want* me to hurt you?" Slightest crease of his brow, eyebrows furrowed inward, and Angel truly looks confused.

Lindsey opens the door wide again. "I want to die."

"That can be arranged."

"Promise. Promise you'll do it and you can come in." Lindsey's eyes are clear even if his speech is not, and Angel looks carefully before nodding.

"I promise."

He steps into the apartment so quickly that Lindsey has to back-pedal to let Angel pass without touching him. He swings the door shut and studies Angel's back, the turn of his head as he looks around the apartment. Wonders if mama's voice will be back now that he's gone and found a way to answer the call of the death wish.

=====

Lindsey's apartment smells like sickness and whiskey, and the man himself smells like despair. Everything in here is neat and orderly, impersonal to a degree that Angel can relate to himself. He turns around and looks back to where Lindsey stands by the door. Sweat pants, t-shirt, bare feet, the out of place vision of a freshly-shaved face at odds with the rest of his rumpled appearance and uncombed hair. It occurs to Angel that Lindsey has a nurse coming by still, maybe a physical therapist, trying to teach him how to function in the world that's no longer made to accommodate him. There's no nicks on the planes of his face, so Angel assumes he's still having the nurse do the shaving.

He shakes off the bizarre flurry of vaguely domestic thoughts and says, "I wanted to see if you were alright."

Lindsey's laughter is harsh, a short staccato bark as he walks over and snatches his half-empty glass from the coffee table. "That means a lot, coming from the guy who did this to me." He salutes Angel with the glass before taking a gulp.

"Well, Lindsey, it's not like you left me much choice. I needed the scroll." Angel tells himself he's not making excuses, not to the man who rolled out of his bed and walked right back into the fire without a word of explanation. He's not convincing, not even in his own head. Non-violent touching didn't mean alterations in the pattern of their distrust.

"There's always a choice. This was yours." Lindsey holds up the place where his hand used to be, small gesture before letting it drop to his side. Takes another drink that empties the glass.

"Cordelia was dying. You knew it, and you knew what I'd do to save her. She's family."

"Frankly your secretary doesn't concern me. You think you're more attached to her than I was to, oh say, my *hand*?" Lindsey stalks past him, slams the glass on the bar, pours it almost full.

"You going to offer me a drink?" Angel's voice hums low, but it carries well in the dim room.

"How long you plan on staying?"

"Until I'm ready to go."

"Guess I'll get you a drink then."

Angel watches him walk around the bar, pull out another crystal glass, slosh the warm golden liquid in it. Lindsey gestures him over. "Come and get it. I'm a little short handed right now." Bitter grin, and Angel flinches before closing the distance and picking up the scotch. Sniffs it, murmurs a pleased compliment at the choice and takes a sip.

"I'm sitting. You do what you want." Lindsey grabs the bottle, slips it under his good arm, takes the glass in that hand and walks back to the couch. Sits heavily and lets the bottle roll onto the cushions. Angel watches him drink deeply, takes another sip of his own before resting the glass on the bar so he can shrug off the coat. Folds it neatly over the barstool, takes himself, booze in hand, over to the opposite end of the couch and just relaxes down into the beige cushions, lets the scent of Lindsey wash over him in layers of anger, sadness and confusion.

=====

The first bottle is a thing of the past, and the second one has a fair amount of open space at the top when Angel finally asks him about The Box. That's the way he phrases it, all capital letters in his speech so that Lindsey sees the title in his head. The Box.

Not about to admit that he's seen the box and has little memory of it, knows it's someone or something named Darla, part of the Senior Partners' grand scheme to rid themselves of Angel. Lindsey wonders, and not for the first time, if the Senior Partners have ever given much thought to becoming more straight forward in their planning strategies. The Machiavellian angle just didn't seem to be working out this time around, not from where he sat at any rate. Maybe it's the extremely deep buzz he's lost in at the moment, but it occurs to him that they need to think smaller -- less ceremony and more stakes.

He gets lost in this for so long that Angel prompts him again. "Lindsey, are you going to tell me about the box, or not? I'll find out eventually."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you're going to find out eventually," he says. Grins at Angel over the top of his glass. "All that work just for you. Hope you're flattered."

"Flattered? Oh yeah, you know me, I'm a real glory hound."

"Did you really expect me to tell you? The hand's not enough, right? You got to have the sacrifice and the information, too. You're one greedy son of a bitch."

Angel glances at the bottles on the table, then back to Lindsey. "You're a real people-person when you drink, you know that?"

"You're not people."

Lindsey watches him drain the glass, set it on the table. He makes no move to offer a refill, and Angel doesn't seem to be ready for one. He wonders if vampires can get drunk, if the alcohol can affect them at all. Angel seems to be looser than he can ever remember seeing him before, limbs sprawling on the cushions closer and closer to where he sits. He thinks he might begin to worry, as soon as he can process the realization that closer has become right-next-to, has become touching distance, in fact.

Angel's hand on his arm, the other reaching out and taking the glass from Lindsey's hand as he says, "Let me see it."

Lindsey startles, delayed reaction, "See what? My dick?" Reaches for Angel's belt, fingers twisting under the leather band.

"No, your wound." His voice is the lover's whisper of the suicide-thought, and Lindsey turns his eyes up, blinks once, twice. Licks his lips.

"I'm not that drunk." Tugs on the belt again, gets the tongue free, the buckle undone. Stops when he sees Angel's gaze returning again and again to the bandages that the nurse just replaced not too many hours ago. "You really do want to see it, don't you? You want a look at your handiwork? See what a fine job you did?"

"Lindsey, I..." Guilty stutter gives him away, and Lindsey shoves him back, grabs at the bandages and tears them off. Bright, hot flare of pain when he does it, and even he can smell the copper when his blood hits the air. He's watching Angel's eyes, though, and the way they go from black-brown to golden almost instantly. Not full vamp, he notes with detachment, but right there under the surface, and he's pretty fucking sure Angel isn't even aware of it.

Lindsey's chest heaves as he makes himself sit still, maimed appendage extended. "There. Look. That's what you wanted to see. More of my blood spilled, right? That's what you promised to do, that was your ticket in. Are you happy now?" He can feel the heat in his face, anger and pain clearing the muzziness.

Angel smiles. "Your face is all flushed, Lindsey. That's a waste of perfectly good blood."

He's wondering what the reply should be to that remark, what to say when you've tried to get your hand in his pants, and he's more interested in looking at the place your hand used to be, when Angel stands up. Graceful, unrolling motion of his body, and he takes a hold of Lindsey's bleeding arm. Raises it over pinked-up face and disheveled hair.

"Hold it there. Where're the bandages?" He looks vaguely amused, but there's still gold in his eyes, a neat circle around his iris.

"What are you talking about?" Genuinely confused, half way to hard and beginning to wish for a handful of painkillers, it's difficult for Lindsey to focus on the question. The situation registers though, as he finishes asking, and he amends it. "Bathroom. Down the hall, first door on the right."

"Keep your arm up."

He does keep it up, the arm and the hard-on too, and wonders if the fact that Angel is obviously aroused and taking the time to replace the bandages reflects on his desire to keep Lindsey safe from bleeding to death on his own, not at Angel's hands. Works himself up into a state of high piss-off while Angel fumbles in the bathroom, drops the arm to his lap. Thinks of the request that brought them to this point of the evening, his desire to die and Angel's promise to arrange it. Fresh surge of anger and self-pity to fuel that need to no longer be among the living. It comes to him that maybe Angel had enough the first go-round and wasn't interested in sleazy encounter with the enemy. Shame rears its fiery head, flushes Lindsey's face a darker hue, and he curses his weakness in showing the desire to touch and be touched again by someone he tells himself he hates.

=====

Pacing the marble tiles does nothing to help the burning in his skin, but it's the best he can do right now. Alcohol thinning the barrier, blood taking it down even further, and he's right on the verge, edge of the abyss. Angel feels his grip on reason losing ground to the louder voice that tells him to take what's his, what he's marked, fucked, claimed already. Lindsey's desire to be taken, the offer of blood - it's overwhelming, maddening in a raw temptation that makes his fangs itch in his gums. Even his anger fuels the need until there's nothing to do but get out.

Recalls the sincerity of Lindsey's plea for death, and that's nothing more than foreplay to him, an invitation to the dance. Angel knows the other man's confusion, he can remember his own horror and despair when confronted with his past, with atrocities he could no longer bear. His own words echo mockingly in his head as he grips the sink and stares into the empty mirror.

//Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man? The world wants me gone!//

His answer had been given by the Powers That Be, and he wonders if they are placing him here again. If Lindsey is another test, or *the* test, the one soul that doesn't know it wants to be saved. Angel's life in human form, damned by his own actions and placed before him as a second chance. A living, breathing mirror, a man who has fallen so far that he can't even imagine there being any point in attempting redemption.

Realization that he's failed hits him like a physical blow. Didn't go after Lindsey the night they were together, instead chose to get angry, righteously pissed-off because he went back to the breast of the beast. He chalked it up to Lindsey being spineless, a waste of time and effort that Angel felt was better spent on someone - anyone - else. Too blind in his anger to see that all Lindsey wanted, needed, was for someone to come after him, show some honest desire to help him find his way. He didn't need a hand out, the condescension Angel showed him making it all but impossible for him take it even if it was offered.

And to make matters worse, Angel sees now that he's let it all go much too far. That by taking Lindsey's hand he has in all probability lost any chance of saving him now.

There's a sound behind him and Angel looks up to see Lindsey's face in the mirror. Too-pale skin, eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed, the embodiment of 'victim.' A shudder runs through Angel's body, tightens his muscles, hardens his cock, and that inner voice clamors for him to take what's offered, take what he can tonight. If there's no salvation at hand, then there is the promise to be kept, the darkness urges, and maybe that's the best he can do.

=====

Lindsey sits on the couch listening to Angel in his bathroom, head swimming with shame, alcohol and blood loss. He looks down at his lap, sees the sweatpants turned heavy and dark beneath his arm, blood gathering in the cotton fibers. He wonders if this is how Angel planned to let him die, drunk and stupid and alone on his own couch, too wasted to get up and do anything about it. Brief thought of actually doing something to help it along rather than stop it, and then he sighs.

Gets to his feet awkwardly, wavering as he stands, arm across his chest in that stance he can't help but adopt as soon as he moves. It hurts now, all up the nerve endings he irritated and scraped raw again, a pain he can understand now. Nothing phantom here, he thinks as he walks unsteadily down the hall and peers into the bathroom. No pretend pain in a hand that isn't there, no make believe pain inside his chest. Both the aches are searing and real.

He startles to stand in the bathroom light and blink at seeing himself in the mirror despite Angel standing directly in front of him. He looks over Angel's shoulder, natural instinct to meet his eyes in the reflection...and all he sees is himself, looking too pale and too tired by far.

Angel turns to him and Lindsey watches his eyes flicker to the wound, the blood on his pants, back up to his mouth. That wedge of gold re-emerges, brown shuttered by the brighter tinge, and Lindsey's heart picks up its pace, adrenaline rush making him tilt alarmingly as his balance leaves him. He feels Angel's hands clamp over his biceps, hisses at the pain it sends shimmering down his right arm.

"I told you to stay there and wait," Angel tells him, his voice heavy in the air.

Lindsey blinks at him, licks his lips, tries to summon up something truly stinging, something to shut Angel up, set him in his place. Instead he comes up with one word. "Angel."

"Damn it. Sit down before you pass out." Pressure on his shoulders and Lindsey lets his knees bend, feels the wide edge of the tub hit the back of his thighs, sits there while Angel steadies him like the last piece in a house of cards.

Lindsey blinks, and Angel is gone, his absence a puzzle he can't begin to fathom. There's too many drugs, too much alcohol, and too little blood in his body for anything to seem clear. So he blinks again, thinking maybe it's a dream, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion and stress. When he manages to pry his eyes open this time, Angel is back. Kneeling on the tiles in front of Lindsey, cool fingers taking his arm with gentle insistence that's completely negated by the way he licks his lips while he wraps the white gauze around the bloody skin, ties it tight as if he's too anxious to get away from it to bother with the niceties of tape and scissors.

"You make a lousy nurse," Lindsey mutters, looking at the makeshift wrapping that barely resembles the neat and orderly package his caregiver creates when she changes the dressing. He looks up and shocks when he focuses on Angel looking at his own hands, sticky and dark with Lindsey's blood.

Angel raises his head, locks his gaze on eyes strobing from cloudy to intense, brings his right hand up to his mouth and licks. every. finger.

"What the hell are you doing, you sick son of a bitch?" Panic brings a clarity of thought, washes the fuzziness of booze right away, all systems on full alert as Angel tilts his head and grins at him.

"Your blood is sweet, Lindsey. Did you know that? I'm thinking some of it's from the pain-killers, you gotta love what a morphine base will do for you when you're hurting, don't you?" Rough hands on Lindsey's thighs, spreading them so he can slide across the tiles and get right up in his face. Lindsey tries to resist but not enough to really make a difference. And part of him just thrills to it. //This is what you wanted out on the couch not so long ago, isn't it? Let him fuck you, drain you dry, you asked for it//

As if reading his mind, Angel's fingers trail across the damp, bloody place on his sweats, slip into the waist band and under the t-shirt. Brush against the taunt muscles of his belly and Lindsey inhales deeply.

"Why did you really come here tonight?" he asks, voice low and with the slightest tremor, equal parts fear and want. "Did you know I'd be like this?"

"Like what, Lindsey? Tell me." Another brush of fingers, higher this time under the shirt, tracing the bottom of his ribcage. Lindsey considers his answer, not even sure how to say it, not really certain what to call the miasma of raw emotions that flow over and around him like some flooded river. He can feel Angel watching every thought as it flickers across his face, the well-trained, calm persona that serves him so well in court a thing of the past for now.

"I don't know...stoned? Desperate? Both?"

"Are you? Desperate, I mean."

He sits frozen as Angel brings his face in closer, mouth parted and hovering right in front of his own. Can't help looking away, knows it's the oldest avoidance signal in the book, Psyche 101, and all that seems both far away and incredibly worthless. Forces himself to raise his eyes when he says, "Are you planning on keeping your promise?"

Soft exhale of air from Angel's laugh hits Lindsey's cheek. "Do you know what you're asking for? You just don't seem to realize that every single minute of every single day, I want to give in and do what you're sitting here begging me to do. I'm always right there in the place between the last taste of blood, and the next." Angel leans in further, chest against Lindsey's chest, lips brushing his ear as he whispers, "You're the next, Lindsey. You get that?"

= = = = =

The smell of blood so thick in the room that Angel can barely think straight. His head is full of the reverberating demands to take what is his, feed and fuck, all of it, over and over. A revelry in crimson, swimming in Lindsey's blood as he drives into his body, image bright and inked on his eyelids with every single blink. Never should have taken the taste, but it was right there, all over him, and he's only so strong. Lindsey's scent carries the familiar markers of pain and anger, and god, the drugs are running rampant through him. Not even a mouthful taken, barely enough to coat his tongue, and Angel's head is swimming. Voice of reason losing ground fast as his appetites are whetted for more, the darkness inside him wild and howling for it.

So much heat coming off the body that thrums under his hands, skin pliant, and there's no resistance when he drags his mouth down the flesh from the ear he's been whispering in to the sweet spot where shoulder meets neck. Tang of desire wafts out of every pore, the vibrations from whatever Lindsey is saying traveling straight from Angel's lips on his skin to his gums. Manages to contain that last thin strand of reason, but only just.

Angel lifts his head away from the tempting throb of blood as it thumps and whooshes below the paper-thin skin, focuses instead on the half-open mouth that he claims with his own. Sucks hard on the plump bottom lip, sweeps his tongue into Lindsey's mouth, one hand winding into the tangled hair at the back of his head and the other finding the place on his back that makes him shudder when it's stroked. Inhales and swallows up the moaned protest that is obliterated by the inarguable evidence presented in the way Lindsey's body curves against Angel's, the languidness with which he allows himself to be kissed and touched, lifted to his feet and pulled-tugged-dragged into the bedroom.

Stops himself at the bottom of the bed, just short of throwing Lindsey on it face-down and letting the desire to bury himself inside of all that heat take over. Eases the t-shirt over Lindsey's head, down his wounded arm before tossing it behind him. Takes in the flush that covers the smooth chest, the spots of blood that have soaked through the cotton and dried on pale white skin. Pulls his own shirt off, heedless of the buttons and drops it to the floor before falling to his knees and letting his tongue catch the taste of rust colored flakes that dissolve at his touch. Lindsey's breath hitches in, ragged gasp, when Angel pulls the ruined sweatpants over lean hips and presses his mouth to the newly bared skin. Wrong to be doing this, wrong to be taking pleasure in the slow, wet exploration of this thigh and the added tang of copper he finds there. Hyped to the tremble beneath his hands as they cup tightly-muscled flesh and pull it closer, hold it still so he can get his tongue right...there. Crease where leg joins torso, sweet untouched territory for his mouth to devour.

He feels Lindsey lose his balance, his knees buckling, and stands up reluctantly to break the fall. Drops him to the bed, observes the boneless sprawl of the heavily-medicated, perfect victim. Pliant, willing, aching to be used, and that's the dig. The part of him that wants most to ravage the body as it lies before him listens to faint notes of disappointment at the ease of conquest. No joy gained in victory when the prize comes willingly, when it's already been broken by the inexorable pull of despair and need. Long and lithe as the limbs may be, marked already by the demon's rage, they're not half so enticing in wanton surrender as they would be stretched to the breaking point.

Angel shakes his head, wills the darker thoughts away and fails as he finds himself straddling Lindsey's legs, stroking the hard length of his cock and watching him writhe. The other man all bruised lips and half-closed eyes as Angel's hand closes and pulls, sliding in the glimmer of slickness that covers his fingers. His thumb brushes over the head, and Lindsey's back arches, head rolls side to side, and he moans long and loud. One more rolling twist of Angel's hand, calloused palm rough over the tip, slipping in the wetness, and Lindsey is coming, mouth open and eyes shut tight, as he bucks into the fist that holds him. Moments later his breathing steadies, head turned to the side on the wrinkled comforter, mind far away and drifting on scotch and painkillers, blood loss and endorphins.

Chest tight, cock achingly hard, Angel drops to the bed beside Lindsey. His eyes are drawn again to the patch of skin on Lindsey's thigh that is stained with the dried blood from earlier in the night. Tells himself that there's no harm now, not after all that's happened tonight, nothing wrong in taking those last scant remains. Slides down the bed and slips between legs that part easily and with no resistance to his seeking hands, touches the tip of his tongue to the dull brown swirls that mark the places he missed earlier. Feels the tingle of human blood as it's released by the moisture of his saliva, minuscule amount of Lindsey seeping into his cells. Takes a long lick that draws him further and further up between Lindsey's legs. Back to the crease of the thigh, scented now with semen as well as blood, salt on salt as his mouth covers the skin, tongue laps up everything it can find.

Fangs descending almost without him noting it, so natural and right and everything he once was, until they are scraping flesh, small red welts that yield a few drops of hot, fresh fluid. That's what drives him to it, he will tell himself later when it's him and his soul alone in the brooding place. It's the way the blood is so alive in his mouth that forces him to just bite down on the smooth, damp thigh, forces him to pump his lower body into the mattress as he drinks, savors the way it flows into him. And keeps drinking, rolling his hips with the rhythm of Lindsey's heartbeat until he comes against the bed wearing the pants he couldn't be bothered to remove, groaning against the skin that still bleeds for him.

=end=


End file.
